


Living in a World of Pain (I Think I’m Going to Die Here)

by SuperSilverSpy



Series: Dick "Whumptober" Grayson [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Apathy, Barbara Gordon is mentioned, Bruce Wayne’s A+ Parenting, Cassandra Cain is mentioned, Dehydration, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Dicktober, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt galore, Hurt/Comfort, I went all out on this one guys, I wrote this so late it’s now early morning, Isolation, Jason Todd Has a Heart, Like, More tags to be added, No comfort just hurt, Prompt Fill, SilverGrayson, Sleep Deprivation, So..., Stab Wound, Starvation, Strappado, SuperSilverSpy, Tarantula Trauma, Whipping, Whumptober 2020, Wounds Galore, a really big one, and I mean that as sarcastically as possible without actually believing it, biggest one in the history of the universe, briefly, broken leg, but they’re not actually in there really, gunshot wound, haha - Freeform, injuries, ish, jason Todd is a good bro, slight insanity, water boarding, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26910331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSilverSpy/pseuds/SuperSilverSpy
Summary: “They waterboarded him that day, all day. With his throat swollen and energy gone, lungs exhausted, then right back into that tiny little cage, limbs twisted to their limits once again, an ever present ache in every muscle, every bone in his body. He just couldn’t keep up, Dick was tired, so very tired, and all he could think as the Crazy Things did everything possible to keep him awake was: where the h*** is he?”Where the h*** is he? Thought Bruce, they’d been looking for weeks, scouring every corner of Gotham, with no results. It was as if Dick had just vanished, disappearing into thin air, just poof! Gone.Such a thing shouldn’t be possible, it wasn’t. They were missing something, they had to be. Whoever these people were, they were good. Maybe even better than good, but no one could just kidnap a person, especially not his son , without a trace. A reliable, actually helpful trace that is.”OR Dick gets captured, the Batfam try to find him, and they almost get there too late
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Tim Drake
Series: Dick "Whumptober" Grayson [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939666
Comments: 28
Kudos: 178





	Living in a World of Pain (I Think I’m Going to Die Here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kapiushon17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapiushon17/gifts), [Marzue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzue/gifts).



> Prompts:
> 
> “this prompt isn’t super specific, but I’d love to see something regarding Dick getting hit with fear toxin!!!“
> 
> “ Dick has been captured some time ago, and been missing for several weeks at least before the bats even notice he is gone. They look for him, and when they finally find him, he's been treated really badly (I think of like, kept in a too-small cage, beaten,... but that's really up to you(: ) and desperate for comfort.
> 
> Extra kudos if you write it alternating between Dick's POV (him getting more and more desperate as no one comes) and the Batfam's struggle to locate him;-)”
> 
> “I thought about the medieval strappado as torture method (y'know, tying someone's hands behind their back and then pulling up so the shoulders dislocate) in combination with Dick, because, like, he's an acrobat whose body can bend in the most crazy directions, and then having his own joints used to hurt him... It would bring on a lot of angst, in addition to the agonizing pain.”
> 
> I’m sorry for being so late, but at least I combined prompts (hopefully I did them all justice), enjoy!

He grunts as yet another foot connects with his already black and blue side. The metaphorical wind has been knocked out of him so many times, Dick’s decided to just forgo breathing altogether.

It’s been a while now, he’s pretty sure. Definitely more than a week, cause there was when he first got captured, 

( _There were too many, it was an ambush. His emergency beacon was damaged and no one was coming._

_Punch, kick, dodge, block. Both Escrima were gone. Nightwing’s assailants were advancing, it didn’t look good._

_Searing pain in his shoulder, and the room whited out. He staggered, they took advantage, then Dick was down.)_

and _that_ wound hasn’t _healed_ per say, what with all the slashes going across it.

( _Chains, holding him. Both wrists above, his legs secure below. A knife, going in, going across. He grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the blade twists._

_The bullet had gone through, meaning there wasn’t anything to fish out, which was good, but it also meant there were two places in which they could torture him._

_It had been a clean shot, nothing vital was hit, but it still hurt like crap.)_

Then there’s his leg, which was broken during his first escape attempt long enough ago that it’s at least tried to heal.

( _He slumped in “defeat” and the thugs take the bait._

_Must. Get. Home._

_Twisting out of their grasps, Dick makes for the door._

_Must. Get. Home._

_Down the hall, take out two more. Dodging bullets. Staggering as fast as he could._

_Must. Get. Home._

_There was light, up ahead. The good kind, the_ **_real_ ** _kind, he can almost taste the fresh air-_

_Tackled, shackled, and thrown back into the room. His least favorite room._

_“Looks like someone wants to run away”_

_“Oh no, we can’t!-have that. It’s time!-for another lesson!”_

_The two cackle madly as he’s turned on his stomach, struggling._

“ _Birdies can’t fly without their wings”_

_she grinned at him._

_“People can’t!-walk without!-their legs”_

_he laughed._

_“Which one are you pretty birdie?”_

_A smirk._

_“Pretty- birdie!”_

_That mocking look-_

_“No!”_

_His leg snaps like fingers. Sharp, drawing attention to the area, too fast, way too fast. Except with this, there’s no returning to normal, no movement without pain. He’d much prefer the fingers.)_

Dick’s leg had been splinted at least, but the dragging around since hadn’t been fun. All the torture after hadn’t help matters much either. He knew the sh**y patch up job on his leg had been done and re-done at least five times.

Take now for instance, one of the goons currently assaulting him was aiming viciously for said area. Destroying the wood and wrappings supposedly keeping it in place. At least it distracted from the one kicking the bullet wound.

_Please let me sleep…_

“Stop it,” the woman hissed, Dick likes to think of her as Crazy Thing One, “he’s falling unconscious, and that’s just unacceptable!”

If her sing-song voice was bad, the brother’s is even worse, “tsk tsk, that’s not” and this is said monotone, “great! Sleep is for the weak! And the weak” now the tone goes up and down, undulating while always ending in exclamation, like that one meme with the mocking letters. The rest is said with that same flat voice, “don’t get to sleep.”

This time it’s water that’s dumped on his head, last time it was a fog horn, and a while back he’s half sure there was a light in his eyes. They didn’t catch him in at least three incidences, so there’s that. He’s had three bouts of unconsciousness- that he remembers- and feels like he could sleep forever.

Crazy Thing Two stalks over with that awful poker face of his, a malicious delight in his eye. He’s got something new in mind, and Dick just knows he’s not going to like it.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It starts with Damian of course, Richard is his favorite, and the others are such _imbeciles_ to not notice (but secretly, he is ashamed. Ashamed that it took him so long.)

The favorite brother hadn’t texted in a while, hadn’t called or visited. That in itself was very odd, though it could be explained with many an excuse, mainly being “busy”. Grayson was hardly ever too busy to check in however, the man himself didn’t even believe in such a thing. Not to mention, Nightwing hadn’t been on the news much lately either, and the more Damian thought about it, the worse that feeling got. The one that had been bothering him all day, all week, and more.

In his defense, it had started as a bad gut feeling on patrol, which was not uncommon, though it did persist afterwards. Filling him with a sense of foreboding, it took him _days_ to figure out what was wrong, and even then he dismissed it. 

Well now he can’t, now he won’t.

Grayson’s number is on speed dial, the phone rings and rings and rings, going straight to voicemail. The eldest should be free right about now, it’s after his shift, but before patrol. 

Damian frowns, as much as he loathes the thought, asking for assistance might prove prudent. That insolent Drake would certainly take this proposal seriously. They all loved the eldest after all, even Todd might care a little.

“It’s Grayson, I think something’s wrong and I’d prefer to know his whereabouts.”

“You think Dick’s in trouble? What makes you say that?” 

A frown, “he hasn’t contacted us for a while, and Nightwing hasn’t been observed in Blüdhaven recently.”

Drake looks doubtful, “I’ll look into it.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They ripped out his fingernails, put a _brand_ to his shoulder. He’d screamed and screamed, had looked toward the door, watched it, watched the ceiling. Stared into the shadows so intently that the hallucination of his family coming almost seemed real. Then the pain, _radiating_ from his shoulder, waves of intense heat bearing down, and he was gone. 

When he woke, it was to find that his voice had left as well. Throat raw and throbbing, dry as the desert. A knife had been plunged into his thigh to wake him up, punishment for clocking out in the first place.

New horrors decorated his body, and Dick knew, even with his head fuzzy with pain and a million other things, that he had not lost his voice from the brand. Try as he might, the memories were gone, leaving only scars and agony behind.

Very quickly, they realized that he did not remember, that flashes and blurs were all he had of their “time together”.

“Birdie, birdie, birdie; birdie in the night dear, _darling._ How could you have forgotten, forgotten **_me_ **?”

“We had so -much fun! You _sang!_ -for us, with a -most joyous voice!”

Crazy Thing One gestures to the goons nearby, and they grab Dick, hauling him into the next room over, a new one with dirty white-ish tile walls and a floor to match. There’s a bucket of water nearby, a towel, and most notably- a table. It was a special one too, set at an angle, and Dick can tell just what it’s for.

“Birdie doesn’t deserve air, birdie doesn’t need it. Drowning time, drowning time, drowning time’s his favorite!” She giggles madly, producing a gag from nowhere.

“ _Still_ can’t!-remember? Hmmm, that -just won’t do! Maybe this!-will shock and shock, -shock the truth out of you!”

They waterboarded him that day, all day. With his throat swollen and energy gone, lungs exhausted, then right back into that tiny little cage, limbs twisted to their limits once again, an ever present ache in every muscle, every bone in his body. He just couldn’t keep up, Dick was tired, so very tired, and all he could think as the Crazy Things did everything possible to keep him awake was: _where the h*** is he?_

* * *

_Where the h*** is he?_ Thought Bruce, they’d been looking for weeks, scouring every corner of Gotham, with no results. It was as if Dick had just vanished, disappearing into thin air, just _poof!_ Gone. 

Such a thing shouldn’t be possible, it wasn’t. They were missing something, they had to be. Whoever these people were, they were good. Maybe even better than good, but no one could just kidnap a person, especially not his _son_ , without a trace. A reliable, actually helpful trace that is. 

Oh there were plenty, rumors and chatter, contacts in the underworld, but they were all dead ends. 

Bruce knew who it was, knew they were criminals not unlike the Joker himself. Two of them, twins as Tim had found out, a creepy crazy duo of sorts who were new in town. Low in the ranks, but undeniably intelligent, their motive is unknown.

At least one of them is an expert in torture, he does know that much. Just as he knows that this “dysfunctional big a** family of his” as Jason would put it, is falling apart.

Tearing at the seams, it’s as if they’ve lost the glue, the threads keeping them all together. Damian wouldn’t talk to him, won’t stop sneaking out and repeatedly refuses to follow his orders, Bruce doesn’t know what to do. The boy is clearly hurting, all of them are, he’s pretty sure. 

They should’ve realized Dick was missing sooner, they need him to be alive, to be there. Always there for them, for him, and Bruce knows that they’ve been lulled into that safety of knowing this. That it’s unfair for so much pressure to be put on the young man’s shoulders when he probably has many other things to attend to.

Bruce just can’t help it. There was a breakout at Arkham yesterday, and there was no one to check the lines, to get everyone together to brief them, no one to keep the mood light, to take on the two remaining rouges, no one to leap in front of that bullet meant for Tim, no one to laugh in the face of danger, to crack cheesy annoying puns about every little thing, and to bandage up his little birds and make sure they went to bed. 

There was no one, because Dick always showed up for important things like that, always rushed over right on time, ready to serve whenever Bruce called emergency. He’d never given it much thought before, of course, but Dick had a life, one so very precious, one upon which everything depended on. With him gone, life seemed duller, darker. As if they had lost their ever-shining light in the void that is Gotham.

Jason is another thing too, for though said man had shown up last night, and claims to have exhausted all his resources in this effort as well. Bruce believes him even, but he can still feel the disconnect. It was always there before, but now it’s more apparent. Now he doesn’t know if he should say something about the guns, doesn’t know if he should talk to his son. Dick had always done that, had laughed and joked and wormed his way into all their hearts, even the great Red Hood’s. In the end, it didn’t matter how much you resisted, how many times you attempted to block him out. Bruce’s first would always win that battle, if he so chose.

_We’ll get you back, Dick_ he willed silently, _no matter what._

* * *

  
  
“Batman’s _so_ late, it’s almost embarrassing,” Crazy Thing One grins.

“He’s not!-Coming for -you! Little Birdie.”

“Never, never, _never_.”

“Not!-Ever for you.”

That’s what they said as he was strung up, as a long, fancy wooden box was brought out. 

A big, many pronged, finely sharpened _whip_ makes its appearance with quick, stinging lines across his bare chest. Red drips down, and he _screams._ Soundlessly that is, with his body arching and his lips far, far apart.

Starting now, he is to count to ten, each number in a different language. If he messes up, they start again.

The dark, heated color paints itself everywhere, ruining his back, front, and everywhere else.

He doesn’t make it to ten.

Oh he suffers _way_ more than the allotted lashes, of course. Blacking out briefly at four, he forgets what number he’s on. They try again, and this time he counts in a language already used.

The next time he starts over, is the last.

When he wakes up, he’s back in that three by three by four foot cage, and ”bandages” cover him from head to toe. No pain relievers, obviously. The Coo Coo Twins have made sure of that. 

Dick doesn’t even try to shift, he learned long ago that there is no comfortable position in this cramped h***hole. Especially when his entire body feels like one big, giant damaged _thing._ His limbs don’t even feel like his anymore, like the pain he’s gotten so used to all these years, pain that comes by for a visit every night on patrol, like an annoying friend, has now progressed to _obsessive_ friend, mentally _unstable_ friend, _abusive_ **friend** -

Enemy. Sure, it helped him build up a tolerance, a so-called _immunity_ . Well nothing could have prepared him for this, no physical pain he’d ever experienced could compare. Dick just wanted it to _stop_ , to go _away_. It wouldn’t though, it hadn’t for the past several…what feels like years.

No one has come for him, and they probably never would. Why would they anyway?

* * *

  
  


Sleep deprived and pumped full so full of caffeine Dick would probably have a joke about it, and a concerned face with chiding words just ready and waiting for him. Tim knows how it would go, what the eldest would say if he could see him now, _but I want you to be here to do it_. 

He’d gone over everything for the third time in a row, and was now out on patrol, Tim wracked his brain for anything he could have missed, going through everything he’d seen at the place of abduction with his exceptional memory.

There had to be _something_ he was missing. RR is a little distracted tonight as he fights, thinking things through. Even as he came up with nothing, Tim continued on. It was better than thinking of everything that could be happening to the black and blue bird, of the words that basically meant “experienced torturer” sitting innocently on a certain lowlife duo’s profile. Everything is falling apart, just as it did the last time- no, this is different. The man is alive, they know it, and he will be found, he has to be.

They need Dick back, and soon, then everything would be normal again, or at least as “normal” as the bat life can be, but there is no normal without Dick. Everyone knows it, that’s why the Demon Brat has been somber, angry, and a million other things all at once. It’s why Jason is doing that thing where he drops by and checks in more than he ever does, yet there is still the divide. It’s the reason why Babs has been so stressed in Dick’s absence, desperately trying to keep everyone together, Cass doing her best to be the nice one, the mother hen in his place. They’re the only ones actually working to preserve what the man had worked so hard on. As Bruce locks himself away, leaving the family in pieces. If Batman needs a Robin, then his family needs a Nightwing. Tim thought he lost this once, and he is most certainly not going to again.

“RR, come in. We got a lead.”

No way in h***.

They arrive much too late. The place has been hastily cleared out, leaving behind evidence that paints a very terrible picture of what has transpired here, and the tortures Dick must’ve been having to go through, might _still_ be going through.

Jason punches a wall, Damian hangs his head, disappearing into the night. All voices are grim as they talk, business of course, they are vigilantes right now, not civilians. They can’t afford to be close family when there’s the blood of one of their own splattered at their feet.

So Tim pushes down those _feelings,_ those emotions, and gets straight to work.

“They can’t have gone far, and look, they made a mistake. We can track the vehicles, Oracle?”

* * *

  
  


_Buried, suffocating, Luther- going to die- again. Need air-_

_(He’s going to see, it’s all my fault, I wasn’t strong enough-)_

_Fighting, hiding, pretending all the time_

_(Alone, I’m so alone. I just miss them_ **_so much_ ** _)_

_The world on his shoulders, dragging him down with each passing day_

_(I live his life, and I’m going to die his death. I never wanted this-)_

_A different weight, pressing down on him, a voice in his ear. Deadly, dangerous, terrible and sickly sweet._

_(Poisonous…)_

_Boom! A gun, going off right there, right next to him, and he just let it happen._

_(I- I killed him)_

_Faces, staring up at him, so many he has failed._

_(How could I?)_

_Little boys with black hair and blue eyes, dying, accusing._

_(It’s all my fault…)_

_They suffer, everything he had. Everything he hadn’t wanted them to._

_(I’m s-sorry)_

_He’s frozen, frozen in place as those he loves attack. Again and again, and he remains. A punching bag for them, he deserves it after all._

_(No pain worse than this.)_

_A failure till the end._

In and out, in and out. Memories of the past, blurs of the present. Hallucinations and horrors, cooked up by his imagination, emotion after negative emotion after _fear-_

He doesn’t realize until too late. The toxin works its way into his bloodstream, through his mind, thoughts and memories, the real and unreal, all swirling together and he doesn’t try to stop it.

Dick can’t.

Vaguely, in the background, he’s aware that a new pain has blossomed, something…something he should probably care about. He knows he should, that he would’ve, but he doesn’t.

Not really, not at first. There’s voices, maybe real ones, the banging of things and slamming of doors, engines preparing. He’s somewhere new, and they’re going to leave him. The thoughts barely register, buried beneath everything else; he doesn’t pay them any mind. Not as new terrors dance before his eyes, destroying him inside out, but then something shifts. Something changes, and then there’s terrible, raw _agony._ In what feels to be every particle of his being, but mostly just his upper body. He thinks, he can’t tell.

The most unnatural noise Dick’s ever heard in his life echoes, and the world fades into nightmares.

* * *

_Come on, come on, almost there. Just hang in there Dickie, we’re on our way._

This new building is enormous, filled with traps and a surprisingly low amount of guards.

He was nearly decapitated several times, fell halfway down a hole, and had to scale a wall. From what he can tell from comms, the others haven’t been doing much better. Replacement seems to have gotten himself stuck somewhere, and the Demon is cursing up a storm, something about water, spikes, and...height problems? Jason doesn’t want to know. 

The big bat himself has been mysteriously silent, along with Barbie, and Black Bat. Though that last one isn’t exactly uncommon. 

Creeping silently down the hall, he makes his way toward the end of it, finding a way down to what looks to be a basement.

Hood hears something, something familiar. F*** pretences, he rushes through. Crashing into doors, barreling like a madman. 

Wood splinters, traps are foiled, he runs.

Thin, thin walls, way too thin. He bursts through one of them.

Dick is there, delirious, muttering hoarsely, and clearly in pain, but he is _there._

Jason hadn’t known what to do with this poor excuse of a family without said man, everything was always over complicated. Everything, except with Goldie, because things made more sense with him there, to keep things from going out of whack.

The symbol on Hood’s chest may be the connection in theory, but without the big bird, there was nothing to back it up.

He rushes over, assessing the situation immediately and slicing ropes binding the wrists of his elder. Catching the man when he falls, and trying his best to be careful of injuries, Jason finds it to be nearly impossible. 

_Strappado,_ the word brings bile tickling the back of his throat, even as he catalogues Dickie’s other injuries, of which there are many. Recent stab wound, brutal whipping, and a _brand_ \- his vision clouds, blood blistering like those many, many welts- he forces himself to _calm down,_ Hood has precious cargo. 

Anyways, bullet wound, broken leg, dislocated shoulders- _gonna shoot somebody, gonna shoot somebody-_ there’s no one to shoot. Looking around, at the very conspicuous garage door type thing in the corner, leading out through a tunnel, at the very obvious tire tracks and recently used torture device- then moving his gaze south, to the pale, pale skin and easily visible ribs, several of which may be _broken,_ or bruised, probably just bruised. At the thin and shaking frame, lined with crimson and the tension of incredible pain. 

Jason curses so long and so hard that when the others arrive he’s still not done, just takes a breath and keeps on going. Ignores the looks, ignores them all. He goes until his voice is hoarse and he’s gasping for breath.

Three days later he starts up again, but this time the objects of his hatred sit bound before him, and Hood intends to make them pay.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, wow that’s a lot  
> And I know I say this all the time  
> But now I think I really mean it  
> This is the longest fic I’ve ever written,  
> Definitely for a one-shot  
> Anyway,  
> Please tell me what you thought  
> Comments make my day  
> And I want to know what parts you most liked,  
> If I did everyone’s pov’s right  
> Or you can just freak out with me over the ridiculous amount of whump everywhere right now  
> And how much I managed to fit into this one fic  
> Now, three things:
> 
> First. I think I could use like, a temporary Beta or something, just for Whumptober  
> Tell me if you’re interested, I need someone to constantly remind me to write, who will criticize my works, have good suggestions, and edit and stuff
> 
> Second. You can always request a sequel, if at least five people do, then I will write it  
> Probably with some failed attempts at comfort, and definitely showing the aftermath of all that torture I put poor whumpable Dickie through  
> Flashbacks... more info on the part that he doesn’t remember, when he lost his voice  
> And of course character development for the baddies  
> Whoever requested the prompt always gets first say if there’s anything specific you’d like to be in the sequel
> 
> Third. Go check out the first fic in this series to give prompts, they are still open  
> And remember that I’m doing a Batfam fic exchange, and don’t worry,  
> The writing doesn’t start till Whumptober ends
> 
> Very sorry for the ridiculously long AN,  
> Stay whelmed!  
> -Silver


End file.
